


History for Sale

by AvaMclean



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BAMF Buffy, Brainwashing, Crossover, Gen, Hydra (Marvel), Implied Relationships, Moral Ambiguity, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 09:05:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4913458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaMclean/pseuds/AvaMclean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy Summers is a lot of things to a lot of people. Friend. Slayer. Lover. Dead. Hydra Asset. Assassin.</p>
<p>For years her friends thought their Slayer dead. When they learn she’s alive they’ll stop at nothing to save her. Steve Rogers, however, is just trying to keep her from killing his best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. who is in control

**Author's Note:**

> There will be some scenes labeled with a date (Ex. **01.1999** ) which means the scene(s) following that notation take place in the past(specifically that date). These scenes will always be at the end of a chapter and all other scenes are to be considered ‘present day’.

The alley stank of decomposing garbage and things, Steve Rogers thought, best left to the imagination. He’d followed Bucky out of the coffee shop and onto a crowded New York street. His friend hadn’t said a word before ducking out on their tab and Steve had taken the extra moment to toss down a ten before hastily adding another five. 

He nodded to the startled barista—he was mildly certain they preferred to be called that now—before feeling the brisk fall air grip him tight as he gave chase. Bucky’s lead had him turning down the alley before him and Steve lengthened his stride. His wide shoulders meeting with more than a few others had him calling out his apologies before he impacted the brick wall on the opposite side of the alley when he couldn’t slow enough to turn in time. He hoped Sam could follow the trail of startled people to their new destination. 

Blue eyes narrowed on the sight of Bucky backing a wide-eyed blonde against a wall further down. She clutched a rather large camera to her abdomen and flinched when the grip he had on her arm tightened. Steve frowned at the fact that it was his left arm, the bionic arm, and that it could bestow an impressive amount of force. He reached their end of the alley in a few easy strides, careful not to spook his friend as he called out, “Everything alright, Bucky?”

“Everything is most definitely not alright,” was the woman’s quick and breathless retort. 

“Stop it!” The shout was accompanied by another clenching of his fist and a strangled gasp escaped the woman. She turned pleading eyes to Steve and his mouth thinned at the watering of her gaze. “You know me!” Those eyes closed, the tears creeping down her cheeks as Bucky’s tone lowered towards menacing, “And I know you.” 

“I get that,” Steve offered, “I do, Buck, but you’ve got to let her go before you break her arm.” 

The leather jacket his friend wore tightened across his shoulders as they hunched. Steve dropped a comforting hand there and used it to guide him back from the blonde. His grip on her arm loosened before it slipped away and she let go of her camera to rub absently at the indent in her jacket. Steve frowned at the pinched fabric and wondered if he had enough money on him to reimburse her if this turned out to be a misunderstanding. 

They didn’t happen nearly as often as they used to and while Steve trusted Bucky, he didn’t always trust his friend’s memory. It tended to have gaps and what he did remember wasn’t always the entirety of what had taken place. Watching his friend torment a tourist, a woman no taller than Natasha and several pounds lighter, just didn’t sit well with him. Sam was better at bringing Bucky back into the present, his years with the VA making him invaluable in times like these. Steve tended to have the opposite effect.

“Walk me through,” the words came out as more of an order than he’d intended and Steve flinched before clarifying, “How do you know her?” 

Bucky didn’t shrug off the hand on his shoulder, which was a good sign, but he never took his gaze from the blonde and she was looking anywhere _but_ them. He studied her face another long, silent moment before he turned his head to look directly at Steve, “She’s Hydra. I was,” there was a slight hesitation before he stated, “her handler. I was her handler.”

“You’re certain?” He asked the question even though he already knew the answer. The clarity in Bucky’s voice and steadiness of his gaze told Steve, better than words, that his friend wasn’t currently trapped within a flashback.

“I have never met you before in my life!” The edge of panic in her words seemed genuine enough, but Steve moved to place himself beside Bucky. Her eyes widened and her hands went back up to griping the camera around her neck as she turned to Steve, “I don’t know him. I swear!”

“Maybe you don’t,” Steve’s gaze dipped to the camera, the way she clutched it, and a thought formed. “I’m going to need to see the camera, ma’am.” 

“My camera?” She tugged the strap over her head, fluffing her hair as she thrust it at them. “Here! Take it and go.” 

There was a slight tremble in her arm as she held it out to him, not Bucky, and Steve hesitated. Her hand only shook harder, the camera beginning to bob and Steve felt his resolve wane even as he accepted it. His brows tugged together as he turned it on and changed the setting to view. Regardless of what others might think he was embracing the technology of this decade and he was never before more thankful of the internet’s infinite knowledge as when he saw an image of him and Bucky in the coffee shop. 

He could feel Bucky lean in and he tilted the camera so he could view the image as well before he looked up. “What do you want?” Bucky’s question was answered by a slight smile and a quirk of her brow. Steve’s gaze traveled from her face downward, checking her for threats. He frowned, noticing a small device nestled in her left hand and at the same moment Bucky demanded, “What is your mission?” she pressed down her thumb. 

She pressed down her thumb and the world exploded in pain and clenched muscles. Electricity, not unsimilar to a Widow’s Bite, snaked up his arms through his body as he collapsed to his knees. “Steve!” He heard Bucky’s shout of his name, but was unable to reply as he was left in spasm, but he did hear the fight begin above him. 

A moment or two passed before he was able to drag himself up from the damp ground. He nearly winced in sympathy when the woman took a hit to the sternum from Bucky’s bionic arm. She stumbled, lost her footing and landed in a crouch near the wall. She ducked his next swing, the wall wasn’t as lucky and several bricks rained down. She latched on to one of those bricks and rose, driving it into Bucky’s ribs. He grunted and she spun within the circle of his arms to strike his jaw with an elbow before slipping away. 

Bucky stumbled and she threw the brick at his face. He batted it away and she used the distraction to pull another weapon from the pocket of her jacket. Steve saw the glint and lunged. He caught her shoulder and spun her towards him. She embraced the change and Steve was introduced to a pair of brass knuckles with a blade nestled in the center. It was delicate, shaped like a triangle and it slid easily into his side. 

“No, _kat’onok_!” Bucky’s frantic shout slipped the blade from between his ribs and Steve coughed when her knee struck the wound next before she turned to Bucky. 

She snapped, “ _Kat’onok_?” repeating the term with obvious distaste before addressing him in rapid fire Russian. Steve barely understood every third word and found himself at a loss as the pair traded blows and barbs. Her accent felt off, as if Russian wasn’t her first language, and he’d spent enough time with Natasha to believe he could tell the difference. Sometimes. If it wasn’t Natasha speaking. 

Without warning she maneuvered herself beneath a fire escape and leapt up to grasp the first rung of the ladder. Her weight brought it down and she used the extra momentum to slam her knees into Bucky’s chest. They were sent tumbling and landed with her on top and Bucky sprawled out beneath her. She brought the weapon forward, towards his throat as she clarified their previous conversation in English, perhaps even for Steve’s benefit, “You are my mission.” 

“I don’t care,” Steve addressed her with a knee to the face. 

Her neck arched with the blow and her body fell to the side. Steve caught the arm closest to him and yanked her up and away from his friend. She stumbled, blood trickling down her chin from a split lip as she gazed up at him. Her head inclined, as if confused, and Steve felt a pang of remorse. 

It was short lived as he caught the wrist aiming the blade towards his midsection. Steve let go of her other arm to grasp her by the throat and he dragged her slight weight to the wall. She impacted with a grunt and a bearing of blood covered teeth. Steve pushed down on her right arm, willing her to drop the weapon as he ground her closed fist against the brickwork. Green eyes narrowed before she worked her free hand between his bicep and wrist to grasp at the hand crowding her throat. 

Her fingers wound around that wrist and compressed. Up until this point she’d used speed and subterfuge as her weapons of choice, but Steve felt the shifting of his bones as she jerked at his hand. She was strong; much stronger than the average person, but not nearly as strong as him. He dragged her forward by that wrist before shoving her backwards with more force. 

The wall concaved behind her and she sagged in his arms, chin resting against his wrist. Both arms fell to her sides and the brass knuckles clattered to the asphalt. Steve eased his grip and spared a glance behind him to see Bucky pulling himself to his feet. There was a slight sway to his step and blood decorated the side of his friend’s face, but he seemed well enough. 

Small hands slipped over his shoulders and his grip on the woman’s throat was broken as she leapt upward. Her thighs wound their way around his midsection before her hands fisted his jacket. She compressed his chest, pressuring building over the wound she’d inflicted with the knife. Her forehead connected soundly with his own. Twice. 

His eyes watered, the world blurring and the pressure around his middle lifted as a leg snaked around his neck. Her weight, which wasn’t substantial, was tossed backwards and she swung to the side while her momentum propelled him into the wall. He felt it give under the impact and Steve shook off the blows as he pushed himself over and onto his back. 

“He’s a better dancer than you.” Steve watched the confusion chase across the woman’s face at her casual statement a moment before Bucky engaged her with a kick that sent her back into the wall. 

Steve frowned at the force behind that blow. Realizing, belatedly, that Bucky had been holding back. The woman shook her own head, her movements lethargic and Bucky’s next blow was with his bionic arm. It struck her temple with enough force that Steve winced and she collapsed. 

That arm was then offered to Steve and he accepted it without hesitation. The sudden tug to his feet did something funny to his vision, but he ignored it to look down at the unconscious woman. “So you know her.” 

“I knew her,” Bucky corrected with a smirk, “It’s been a few years.”

“She’s like you?” Steve made it a question even though the answer seemed obvious enough. 

Heavy footfalls interrupted Bucky’s chance for a response and Steve turned towards the entrance of the alley. Sam skidded to a halt a few feet back from them and frowned first at them and then the woman at Bucky’s feet. “What?” he coughed. Shook his head and tried to catch his breath before clarifying, “Know what? Tell me later. When we’re not assaulting people in broad daylight!”

“Technically, she assaulted us.” 

The defensive tone to Bucky’s voice didn’t stop Steve from correcting, “Actually, you did assault her first.”

“Really,” Sam stressed, “Not the time for this discussion.”

* * *

**01.1999**

The live feed was similar to that of time lapse photography. It recorded an image only every five seconds making all movement spasmodic. Thick brows rose as Feliks Olvo watched the screen with interest. The subject used trickery to defeat her opponent. The sudden disintegration of the mad man was only a mild curiosity to him; instead his focus remained on the smaller figure as she knelt to free her mother. 

That connection would need to be severed. It would happen sooner rather than later as no witnesses were to be left in regards to the subject’s victory. He ordered the neutralization of the problem with his team before addressing Quentin Travers, the man who’d made this acquisition possible, in the same level tone. “She is cunning.”

Pale eyes turned from the screen to him and Travers’ lined mouth curved upward before he nodded his agreement. “Her aptitude is astonishing.” A smile formed as the smaller man admitted, “If her obedience were closer to the same ideal I wouldn’t feel the need for this arrangement.” 

Olvo turned his attention back to the screen as the mother’s throat was ravaged by a metal contraption invented by the Watchers’ Council. A construct of manmade teeth that was used to motivate a Slayer to come to arms when they were in want of inspiration. He could see the subject continue to struggle against his men as they injected her with a neural depressant that had been created to suppress the autonomic nervous systems. 

It took several moments for the concoction to have the desired effect and during that time his team dispatched the second threat before it entered the room. It shrieked as it crumbled to ash and he smiled before adding, “Hopefully she retains that ingenuity after the treatment.” Both men watched as she slumped to the floor and he continued, “Our current asset is adequate, but we are in need of something more specialized.” 

“I assure you that Miss Summers will not disappoint. However, with a Slayer’s healing ability she may require more extensive treatments to properly condition her.” He watched Travers out of his peripheral vision and the man turned to study his profile as he completed the assessment with, “Her mind may be more resilient to the wiping process.” 

“Resilient minds can still be broken.” His next comment was derailed as his team reported in that they’d subdued Rupert Giles outside the residence. A line appeared between his brows as he addressed Travers. “Mr. Giles has entered the killing field. My team has rendered him unconscious.” Another burst of intel was reported and Olvo clarified, “He remained unaware of their presence.”

Travers’ mouth thinned and his gaze narrowed. “Are you certain?”

“My men are thorough and loyal to our cause.”

The pinched-look faded and Travers gave a hesitant nod. “Very well, Mr. Olvo. I conceded to your expertise, but please have your men break his arm. We want this scenario believable, do we not?”

He relayed the order before returning his gaze to the screen and watched as the extraction team set up the scene for Mr. Giles to discover once he awoke rather than be ordered to report in by Travers. The subject was tossed carelessly to the floor, her arms lank and her head lulled to the side at an angle that was minutely adjusted by one of his men. One of the primary toxins in the neural depressant would affect the parasympathetic nervous system and a side effect of that toxin now stained the front of her overalls. 

His mouth thinned in distaste—not with the presence of such a humiliation, but rather the scent he and his men would be subjected to until they could hose the subject down. They watched as his men made minor alterations to the scene before extracting themselves. He turned to share a smile with Travers before offering, “Mr. Giles’ presence will speed up the timetable considerably.” 

Travers hummed his agreement before clearing his throat, “Yes, well he does appear to have a father’s love for the child. Pity.” 

“That will work in your favor. I believe.” 

“I suppose it shall.” Travers studied the screen one last time before squaring his shoulders. “Miss Summers is nearly in your control. Do you think perhaps now would be a good time to discuss Mayor Wilkins?” 

His mouth curved inward, paling the scar that bisected his lip and curved down across his chin, as he assured Travers, “Mayor Wilkins, while meticulous, hasn’t yet started his Dedication and thus he shall be easily eliminated. Do not fear, Mr. Travers, Hydra always honors its agreements.”

“Of course.” Travers nodded his head, perhaps a bit too rapidly, “I didn’t mean to infer—”

“An ascension at this time would be problematic,” Olvo interrupted the back stepping. 

“An ascension would be problematic at any time.” 

A brow rose with the sudden appearance of the other man’s spine. “You would think,” his tone was void of emotion and welcome to interpretation. 

Travers nodded, accepting the words as an agreement, before he offered, “I suppose I should awaken Rupert. He has quite the night ahead of him.” 

“As do we, Mr. Travers.” He stepped back and allowed the other man to pass in front of him. He watched his steady progress across the room before calling after him, “Hail Hydra.” 

Travers paused and turned to back to meet Olvo’s gaze he echoed, “Hail Hydra.” 

He watched him leave and saw it unfavorably as a retreat. He shook his head and returned to his study of the feed. The pool of blood beneath the subject’s mother grew exponentially before Mr. Giles entered the room. The feed added a haunting quality to his movements as he fell to his knees beside the subject. His left hand, as his right arm hung useless at his side, brushed at a lock hair that had fallen across her cheek. That hand slipped to her neck, fingers searching for her pulse point. 

Olvo knew the toxin would slow the heart to nearly nonexistent, but Travers interrupted the moment and his hand slipped away from the subject. He watched the spastic movement of Mr. Giles’ shoulders as the man began to weep and his smile widened with the implication before he addressed his team to stand down. 

The secondary measure of eliminating Mr. Giles and Travers wasn’t required—not at this time.


	2. strawberry quik

Maria Hill led them through the compound, past the curious onlookers and into the deeper sections where the concrete had been poured thick and the walls reinforced with steel. The rooms there wouldn’t have held an angry Dr. Banner, but Steve thought they’d work fine for their guest. Hill had retrieved them from New York and hadn’t said much beyond requesting Sam obtain their attacker’s fingerprints and take a few photographs that could be used for facial recognition.

They reached another door that required an access code and Steve glanced back to find Bucky’s gaze trained on said door with the woman’s head propped on his shoulder. There was a tension in his jaw that Steve didn’t like and Sam was watching them, Bucky and the unconscious woman, with a curious expression. He would’ve liked to talk to Sam about it, but not until they had a moment alone. Instead Steve followed there escort through two more locked doors and down a flight of stairs. 

The stairs led into a containment room and Steve arched a brow at the cavernous space with a concrete slab that jutted out from the far wall. A mattress had been placed upon it. Which seemed to be an attempt to make it as bed-like as possible, but it was thinner than the pillows he’d slept on during the war and looked about as old. He frowned at it even as Bucky moved around him to deposit the woman. Steve glanced back; found Sam remained on the stairs while Hill brought up schematics on the tablet she was rarely seen without. 

“This is one of six Vaults,” Hill motioned to the yellow paint that ran from wall to wall and cut the room in half, “The line marks the placement of the field that will keep the—”

“Guest,” Steve stressed even while feeling awkward about the interruption. 

A brow rose towards Hill’s bangs before she cleared her throat and continued, “This room will contain our guest and we can also use it to question her,” she paused, smirked and then corrected, “or have a pleasant chat. Perhaps even some tea?” 

Steve shook his head before he returned attention to their guest and he found Bucky stripping the woman of her jacket. The frail appearance of their attacker, while unconscious, tugged the corners of his mouth downward. The jacket was dropped and his head inclined with the clink it made hitting the floor. Bucky kicked it back to him and Steve crouched down to retrieve it. The scarf was removed next, unwound from her neck with careful movements before it too was dropped and Steve watched it flutter downward before snatching it from the air. 

She was left in only leggings and a tank top. The material muted by the overhead lights, reminding Steve of the uniform Hill wore. He wondered if they were knife and bullet resistant as well as Bucky finally allowed the woman to rest against the mattress. 

Hill cleared her throat before prompting, “If you’re done making her as uncomfortable as possible you might want step back behind the line. There’s been a fluctuation in her vitals. She’ll likely wake soon.” 

He stalked over the line and past them and Steve exchanged glances with Hill before they followed Bucky to the stairs. Hill rotated a colored dial on the screen of her tablet and a low-level hum filled the room. Steve watched as an opaque wall appeared between their guest and the stairs. It obscured the yellow line on the floor and he gave one more cursory glance around the room before following the others. 

“We’re running facial recognition on her.” Steve came to a stop beside Hill with Sam and Bucky creating a semicircle around her as she further explained, “Her prints, unsurprisingly, didn’t come up with a match in any known database. 

Steve caught a glimpse of the tablet and saw at least half a dozen small images on the screen, all of them running one program or another, and all of them were being ignored by Hill who was suddenly very interested in his shirt. Glancing down, he caught sight of the bloodstain even as Hill stated, “You need to have that looked at, Captain.”

Right.

He’d been stabbed and until Hill had been kind enough to point it out he’d be able to ignore the dull ache in his side. Hill caught one of his biceps and tugged; leading him, and the rest of them, down the opposite corridor to an empty office. Steve caught sight of the familiar Red Cross on a box along the far wall and Sam headed towards it as Hill directed him into an empty chair. It was still wrapped in plastic and squelched when he sat. 

Hill knelt on the side of his wound while Bucky crouched on the other and proceeded to lay out their guest’s belongings on the floor. The dress was shook out, nothing of interest in the airy fabric, and was quickly discarded before Bucky brought the boots closer. He searched the seams and heel before he compressed something on the back of left boot and a blade slipped out from the tip. 

Sam returned with the med-kit and handed it to Hill before he too studied the blade. He gave a soft whistle before stating, “That doesn’t look promising,” he frowned, “or does it? I’m still fuzzy on the details. Do we want her dangerous? You know, to corroborate our locking her up?” 

“She’s dangerous,” Bucky retorted and dropped the right boot to the ground after finding nothing suspicious. He leaned forward and opened a hand to Steve who passed on the jacket and scarf as Hill rolled his shirt up to get a better look at the wound. 

The jacket provided a wide array of weaponry and Steve frowned even as he sucked in a breath as Hill applied pressure on the wound. “The bleedings nearly stopped. It doesn’t appear deep enough to cause internal injuries, but you should have Dr. Cho take a look.” 

His brows tugged downward at the thought and Steve shook his head, “I’ll live,” he assured Hill as he glanced down at her and couldn’t suppress the sardonic quirk to his mouth, “Besides, I trust your judgment.”

“Soldiers,” Hill groused as she folded his shirt up and out of her way. 

“You are a soldier,” Sam countered as he made his way closer to Bucky.

Hill smirked, “Which makes my assessment all the more accurate.” 

A snort escaped Steve as she brought out the sterile gauze and antiseptic ointment to clean the wound. Steve kept his focus on the Bucky as he ran the scarf through his hands before lifting it upward, towards the ceiling. Florescent light spilled through the cloth and Steve’s eyes narrowed when he thought he saw a glint in the threading. Bucky tore fabric to retrieve the garrote from the lining and placed it along the floor with the rest. 

“Well I can’t say she’s changed much.” 

Bucky’s quiet assessment brought Sam to a knee beside him with one hand on his shoulder and another reached for one of the knives at random. He studied it a moment before questioning, “How’s that?” 

“She still prefers close-quarter weapons.” His fists clenched, the leather glove groaning against the strength in his prosthetic hand. “She’s exceptionally good at hand to hand combat.” 

“I noticed,” Steve offered before wincing as Hill pushed the open sides of his wound together before sealing it with a medical adhesive that managed to sting more than the wound itself. “She’s strong too.” 

Hill spoke, head down and gaze still intent on her handiwork, “How strong?”

“Strong,” was all Steve would clarify before questioning, “So you do remember her?”

Bucky gave a hesitant nod. “I worked with her on some missions. I think,” he rolled his shoulders inward, hunching in on himself as he clarified, “I know I helped train her.” 

“You remembered her well enough to call her something,” Steve chose to ignore the closed off posture and probed further, “What was it that you called her?” 

A ghost of smile curved the corner of his mouth. “ _Kat’onok_.”

“Kitten?” Hill paused in her gauze application to look at Bucky before clarifying, “ _You_ call her kitten and she stabs Rogers?” The implication that Hill would’ve stabbed Bucky instead remained unsaid, but Steve shifted with the sudden tension in the woman’s hands. 

“She stabbed me the first time I called her that,” Bucky offered. 

“She seemed inclined to stab you today,” Steve added before asking, “Any idea how long you knew her?” 

“Not really,” Bucky shook his head, “It could’ve been months, years, or decades.” 

Sam returned the knife he’d been studying and met Steve’s. “How long can we actually hold her?” 

“Is she like you?” Hill finished taping off the gauze and Steve allowed his shirt to fall back into the place as she removed the plastic gloves from hands. “She’s Hydra. That’s pretty much a given at this point, but is she like you? Or is she like the countless others working for them of their own volition?”

Bucky gazed at Hill, unflinching a moment, before he explained, “I called her _kat’onok_ because there was this stray cat she fed in Istanbul.” The smile playing at the corners of his mouth stretched wider with the memory, “Unfortunate looking thing. Missing an eye, part of its tail.” 

He lost his smile and rubbed absently at his jaw before adding, “I reported her for it and they wiped her.” Bucky returned to his study of the weapons on the floor. 

“If you showed any inclination towards humanity—”

Bucky interrupted Steve’s observation with the confirmation, “They wiped you. We were weapons. She and I. Nothing more.” 

“Yes,” Sam argued as he rose, “You were.”

He stumbled when something—or more precisely someone—moved between him and Bucky at incredible speed before placing themselves against the far wall. There was a smirk, one that Steve had come to expect when one of the twins did something unexpected, being presented to the group as Pietro Maximoff toyed with one of the blades that had been on the floor. 

“Shiny.” He explained with a quirking of his brows. 

“Your prisoner is awake,” Steve looked towards the doorway and found Wanda shaking her head even as she settled her gaze on Steve. “I did not know we took prisoners.” 

“She’s not a prisoner,” Steve cleared his throat at the looks he received from, well, everyone and clarified, “She’s not a prisoner. We’re not on the right side of the law to take prisoners.” 

“At least you understand what side of this law we are on,” Pietro countered, flipping the blade in his hand in a way that was reminiscent of Bucky, but what he lacked in precision he made up for in speed. 

“Very well,” Wanda sighed, “Your guest with limited access to the compound has awoken.” 

“How can you tell?” Hill questioned even as she brought up a feed of the Vault on her tablet. 

Wanda tapped the side of her head and her eyes burned red before she smirked and offered, “She is wondering if you intend to kill her or chat about it all day.” 

Steve frowned at the amusement in her tone before he glanced around at the rest of the team, “Any suggestions on our next course of action?”

“We could do as she requests,” Pietro offered, “and kill her.” 

Steve spared him a frown similar to the one he’d just given his sister, “Any _other_ suggestions?”

* * *

The steady drone of Young’s viola was accompanied by the rhythmic scratch of needle against vinyl. While some could argue that digital recordings were better for clarity, Daniel Osbourne—Oz to those who knew him—stood beside his collection of LPs. The Velvet Underground, like many other bands, sounded best from an analog recording and Oz wanted his son to learn to appreciate what came before the internet and streaming music.

His mouth quirked with the irony as his fingers moved deftly across the keyboard since he was working on the code for his current pet project. The custom search engine—while not a new concept—would check the more interesting corners of the internet for results first. He’d been working on it for weeks and while it wasn’t the highest paying job he’d ever agreed to—his pet projects rarely were—he thought it’d be useful once it was up and running properly. 

The up part was easy enough, it was the properly giving him issues. 

Sunlight streamed in from the wall of windows across from him. There wasn’t much to see out of them, but the rooftop had a patio that they regularly used to watch the sun rise over the city’s skyline. The monthly rent of twenty-four hundred only allotted them a view of the street from the wall of windows and a little over a thousand feet of living space. IKEA storage units had saved his sanity, but it’d taken time for him, and Kelden, to adjust to the limited space when compared to their home in Tibet. 

Thoughts of his son dragged his head up from his work and Oz realized that he clutched a pen between his teeth. He’d been alternating between biting and rolling as if it were a bone and he the dog. Not the best of examples to set for his son and he dropped it into his hand while using the other to wipe at the corners of his mouth. He looked to his left, away from the windows, and found Kelden where he’d settled himself after getting home from school; seated at the breakfast bar that doubled as their kitchen table. A book open in front of him and his head was down as he took notes. A book open in front of him and his head was down as he took notes. The beanie his son had taken to wearing to school was beside him on the counter and his hair was clustered in unruly waves around his head. It was dark brown and all Bayarmaa. The wave came from Oz, but his own hair was cut short to camouflage its instinct to curl and the color was his natural red. 

He rose from his chair, back arching to relieve the tension after sitting too long, before he made his way into the kitchen. He settled himself across from Kelden, on the opposite side of the counter before asking, “How ‘bout something to drink?”

Kelden looked up from his notes and inclined his head. “Of what?”

Oz leaned against the counter and considered their options before settling on, “Strawberry Quik. It’s a man’s drink,” he assured his son before asking, “Think you can handle it?”

He smiled, his eyes gathering at the corners the same way Bay’s used to, as he laughed. “Sure, Dad.”

Oz ignored the trace of irony in Kelden’s tone as he nodded and went to the cupboard. He studied the contents for a moment before settling on two mugs; mugs seemed the manliest of options. Oz shook his head as he retrieved the milk and Nesquik from the fridge. 

“How’s the homework?” He let the question hang as he snagged a spoon from the utensil drawer before pouring the milk. A quick glance was spared for the suggested serving size on the Nesquik bottle before he simply turned it over and squeezed a liberal amount into Kelden’s mug. He glanced up, noted Kelden looking down at his book with a slight pinch to his brow, before he began to stir the concoction. “Trouble?”

“Algebra.” 

Oz nodded his agreement with the difficulties of that particular subject. “Is it something you need to think through or take a break from?”

He tapped the spoon against the side of the mug before handing it to Kelden. His narrow shoulders relaxed with the distraction and Oz added less syrup to his own mug. He figured Kelden’s first happy slurp was answer enough and stirred his own while he made his way from around the counter. “Want to see what I’ve been working on?”

The spoon was popped into his mouth as he made his way back towards his workstation, Kelden only a step behind. He settled himself in front of the computer and brought up the search engine. “What would you like to look up?”

Oz asked the question while already knowing Kelden’s answer of, “Captain America!” 

The invasion a few years back happened just after they’d moved to New York and Oz, already overtaxed by the move and the loss of Bay, had lost control for the first time in nearly a decade. His wolf had come forth fully and, like in Tibet, without a Hellmouth to taint the change he’d looked less monster and more like his namesake. It’d been easier to keep his son safe in that form, but far more difficult to lead him from the city. It was during those frantic hours they had stumbled across Captain America saving a bank full of people—a tall guy in a cape had also called Oz a, “good beast,” and pet his head—Kelden had been fascinated with Steve Rogers ever since.

There was a slurp and a shuffle of feet as Kelden settled himself beside the chair and Oz typed in the request. He took a sip of his own while he hoped for the best from the search results. The spoon bumped his nose and he ignored it when a page full of links appeared on the screen. His brows rose at the sight a video having been uploaded to one of the lesser used, demon run, sites earlier that day. 

“We’re in luck. There’s new video.” Oz clicked on the link and his brows rose at the fact that it’d only been downloaded 25 times. The Avengers tended to grab more attention than that, but since it wasn’t heavily trafficked site he supposed that could explain the lack of viewers. The first image of the video came up on the screen and it was mostly just of a garage strewn alley. 

His son chuckled as he claimed, “Black bars of death!”

“It is a tragedy when people don’t record with their cell phones sideways.” Oz agreed before dropping a hand on that head of wavy hair to mess with it before ordering, “You know the rules.”

Kelden sighed and Oz let his hand fall away as his son complied by turning around so that he couldn’t see the screen. While Oz might trust the site, he didn’t trust strangers—not where his son’s innocence was concerned. He settled a pair of headphones over his ears and redirected the music to them. He glanced at Kelden out of the corner of his eye and saw his bobbing his head along to The Velvet Underground. 

The sound of a fight drew his gaze back to the monitor and he frowned at the sight of two men taking on a petite blonde. He recognized Captain America first. It was hard to ignore the six-foot mammoth of a man and the scuffle lasted less than a minute before the woman was slamming her face into his, not once, but twice. 

Captain America was then tossed into the wall and the woman landed in a crouch facing the camera. Oz paused the video. It had been a flash, a glimpse of something familiar. He rewound and replayed, slowing the scene down until he could pause on with her face and then amplify it. 

“Huh,” was offered to the image of one Buffy Summers. 

The sunlight filling the alley told him she wasn’t a vampire and the blood on her face made him hazard she wasn’t a ghost—at least not in the spectral sense of the phrase. He finished the video, watched her lose and the two men gather her up with the help of a third. It ended with an excitedly whispered, “Holy shit!” by the person recording and Oz couldn’t argue with the sentiment. 

He downsized the video and pulled off the headphones before turning to Kelden. There was an urge to tell him it wasn’t a Captain America video, that the uploader had exaggerated, but Oz did his best to not lie to his son. He hoped someday Kelden would return the courtesy—preferably during those teenage years—and instead he offered the truth, “Adult content.” 

Brown eyes narrowed, first in annoyance, but it quickly faded into confusion. Oz figured some of the shock might’ve actually been showing on his face when Kelden asked, “Is everything okay?” 

“I hope so,” Oz continued with the truth before adding, “I need to call your Aunt Willow and then I’ll help you with the Algebra.” 

He half expected an argument, but Kelden nodded instead and took another sip of his Strawberry Quik. He studied Oz a beat before stating, “I’ll figure it out. You do what you gotta do.” 

That made Oz smile. “Thanks, boss.”


	3. what's a buffy?

Working for SHIELD, and Stark if she was in the mood for honesty, had made Maria adept at cleaning up after others. The Captain and Sgt. Barnes had left to question their prisoner—regardless of how Rogers wished to address her, she was in fact a prisoner—and Maria gathered up the medical supplies she’d used to treat Rogers’ wound, setting aside the bloody pieces for incineration before tossing the rest in the trash. 

Wilson inspected the array of weapons Barnes had removed from the woman’s clothing while the twins did what they did best—acted fast and weird while irritating those around them. Pietro was doing his best to examine each of those weapons as quickly as he could, but each weapon he chose to examine just happened to be the weapon Wilson was holding. Barton forgave such antics because he was a child himself, but Wilson was a different kettle of fish and sometime soon he’d pluck an unsuspecting Pietro from the ground and drop him—bird of prey-style. 

Maria shook her head and finished straightening up before taking the chair the Captain had vacated and brought up the video feed of the Vault. Wilson settled himself beside her and Wanda strolled up to her right while Pietro made her hair fluff, becoming a sentry at her back. Maria chose to ignore him and instead focused on the prisoner slouched on the makeshift cot with her head in her hands. She’d seen Rogers’ medical file after his first run in with Barnes and his bionic arm during the fall of SHIELD and knew it could pack quite the wallop. 

The woman was dwarfed by a room meant to house bigger and badder things, but after cleaning Rogers wound Maria couldn’t think of a better place to house her. He wasn’t the easiest person to injure which meant she was tougher than she appeared—or luckier. In Maria’s opinion you kept the lucky soldiers just as close, if not closer, than the good ones. Soldiers with good fortune won just as many battles as those with brains and brawn. Stark was one of those lucky few with a surplus of all three. 

She’d hate him if she didn’t respect him so damn much.

Rogers and Barnes moved in unison towards their prisoner with Barnes taking point and Rogers following only a step behind. When compared to their intimidating presence the prisoner did frail in comparison, but the same could be said of Romanoff and you underestimated her at your peril. Her head lifted, presenting them with an unobstructed view of her features and there was a muttered curse from behind Maria. 

Her hands were suddenly empty and Pietro was across the room and staring at her tablet. Wanda placed a hand on her shoulder, a gentle touch that kept her seated better than a shove would’ve done. Maria’s eyes narrowed, her irritation replaced by tolerance as she studied Pietro before glancing at Wanda. “Friend of yours?”

Wilson moved, placing himself between Pietro and Maria as Wanda frowned and shook her head, “Friend is a strong word.” 

“She is Anni,” Pietro stated, “she was…”

He trailed off and Maria caught the frown Wanda spared her brother before she explained, “Strucker’s first _great_ accomplishment. We were his miracle and she was an asset.” 

“How did you not know?” Pietro’s tone dipped towards the accusing. 

“Her mind is never the same,” Wanda hissed before her voice relaxed, “She was always different. Always new.” 

The earpiece communicator came to life “Ms. Hill,” the nasal voice of Artie filled Maria’s head, “we have a situation.” 

Maria rose and ignored Pietro’s protest as the feed from the Vault was replaced by a video of the conflict between Rogers, Barnes and their prisoner. The recording started in the middle of the confrontation and the twins gathered around her while Wilson watched them frowning. 

The fight looked outmatched, two large men against one petite woman, but she gave as good as she got and proved, at least to Maria, that it was safer for all those involved that she remain with them rather than turning her over to law enforcement. Maria downsized the video after its completion and brought up all the information she could on the website housing it with a few taps on the screen. 

Artie, the head of IT and as far from a field agent as one person could get, anticipated her need and the statistics of the website housing the video appeared. She studied the numbers while asking, “How many times as this been downloaded?”

“One hundred-seventeen,” Artie sounded as put-upon as she was beginning to feel. 

“How did you find this?” 

Wanda inquired and Wilson stepped forward to explain, “Stark created a search algorithm to look for all mentions of the Avengers. The AI he’s currently using sends the intel to our guys here if it’s deemed something that requires urgent attention.” Wilson sighed and nodded to Maria’s tablet, “Such as that.” 

Maria chose to separate herself from their conversation and made her way out of the room. The twins fell in step behind her with Wilson bringing up the rear while she questioned, “Can you shut it down?” 

“I can initiate the ESSM Protocol Mr. Stark provided us.” 

The hesitation in Artie’s tone made Maria frown as she stabbed a finger at the elevator button. It was times such as these that she missed working as Stark’s head of security with the help of a sometimes immoral AI. She missed JARVIS. She missed his snark and his unflappable nature, but she didn’t miss Stark’s need to acronym everything to death. 

Taking a deep breath and waiting for doors of the elevator to open she questioned, “Why haven’t you already?” 

“On it,” she’d ignore the snip in his tone. 

The doors to the elevator opened, finally, and she stepped on and to the right, making room for the others. She brought up the most recent traffic to the website before selecting the second floor as their destination. “Can you provide me with a list of the computers that downloaded the video?”

“Sure thing,” Artie agreed and she could hear the jingle of the bracelets he liked to wear that weren’t entirely dress code appropriate. 

“Can you destroy them?” She prompted while studying their locations. 

“Should we be privy to such a conversation?” Pietro questioned and Maria didn’t need to look to hear the smirk. 

“Ms. Hill,” Artie sighed, “there are simpler ways to offend me.” 

It almost made her smile since he’d sounded suspiciously like the AI then and she countered, “Why are you arguing then? Do it.” 

“I’m an excellent multitasker,” Artie assured her and a portion of her screen was then filled with a scrolling list of the IP addresses, “Seventy-six different IP addresses downloaded the video the one hundred-seventeen times. The website requires a user login which narrows down the search parameters substantially,” another list appeared after the first with numerous serial numbers and addresses. “Here’s a list of the fifty-four terminals used to download the video and their owner’s last known addresses. The other twenty-two will require more time as they share their users among several IPs.” 

“Stay on it,” Maria ordered as the elevator doors opened and she stepped out, “Compare the list to our database and send any matches, no matter how minor, to my tablet.” 

“Will do,” His tone lost the snippy edge and Maria found she missed it. 

Taking a deep breath, she turned to face the twins and Wilson, found them watching her with polarizing expressions. Pietro seemed amused, Wanda was as unreadable as ever, but Wilson was frowning hard and not entirely happy with her course of action. She took a moment to ask him, “Do you want the authorities asking questions?”

His mouth thinned, but he knew the question was rhetorical. Her eyes narrowed before she made an adjustment on her tablet and a call, “Fury, we have a slight issue…”

* * *

Bucky settled himself in front of the door leading in the Vault and Steve could feel him watching as he entered the code Hill’d provided. He’d lost the jacket when they’d entered the compound and the arm furthest from Steve glinted in the overhead lights. It’d been upgraded, twice now by Tony, the steel replaced by an alloy that was more durable and half the weight. 

Though Tony had kept the star—claiming to like the aesthetic—but it was now a navy blue with white accents. He’d dropped a hand onto that shoulder after the second unveiling and _officially_ welcomed Bucky to Team Star-Spangled. He’d had shirts made and everything. Romanoff still wore hers from time to time and Bucky’s quiet snickers kept Steve from being too irritated. 

Tony had a habit of understanding the little things that kept a person grounded when the world kept shifting on them. Steve had a sneaking suspicion it was half the reason he’d gone out of his way to irritate Steve during their first interaction—the other half was the fact that Stark was kind of a jerk. He just hoped this newest shift didn’t turn out to be too much of a challenge for Buck. 

The locking mechanism released with a click and Steve frowned at it before he cautioned, “You don’t have to do this.” 

Bucky shifted so that he faced Steve rather than the door and he stared him down before he smiled, croaked and not entirely unlike the Bucky he’d known long ago, “Yeah,” he caught the handle and tugged, “I do.” 

His head swiveled back and forth, still wary of blind corners, before he took point into the room. Steve followed him and ignored the tension building in his friend’s shoulders as he made his way down. “Stubborn as ever,” was muttered under his breath when they reached the bottom. 

Bucky spared him an amused look, but there was a tightness around his mouth and both his hands were gathered into fists. His knuckles paled to white on his right hand and Steve gave into the urge to bump his shoulder against the bionic one. The smile he received in return, however fleeting and promising of retribution, made the gesture worthwhile as Steve made his way towards the control panel beside the opaque wall. 

Their guest couldn’t hear or see them until they allowed it and Steve cautioned Bucky, “If she’s anything like Natasha your presence won’t do any good.”

“She’s nothing like Natasha,” Bucky’s frown becoming more prominent as if he were already reconsidering that statement. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Steve offered with more certainty than he felt.

Bucky searched his face. “She’s like me.” 

Steve returned that careful study with one of his own and saw Bucky was struggling, but unless he could convince his friend to sit this one out there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Most days, with Sam’s help, Bucky managed just fine. Steve, like now, wanted to help, but sometimes he was the cause of his friend’s trouble and in those moments he’d learned his urge to help did more harm than good. 

Perhaps this was one of those times so instead of requesting Bucky hang back Steve stated, “Then we’ll help her.” 

“And if she isn’t?”

He watched Bucky’s shoulders fall with the prospect that the woman was with Hydra of her volition, but after what Bucky had remembered that seemed unluckily. Though Steve knew this wasn’t the time to shy away from possibly hard truths and it was good that Bucky’d voiced them himself, but rather than dash all hope Steve sidestepped the notion for the time being, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Steve caught his gaze, “But not before.” 

A snort, that sounded both painful and amused, escaped Bucky as if he’d already guessed Steve’s ulterior motives, but he didn’t call him on it. Instead he motioned for him to use the panel and get this show on the road. Steve didn’t hesitate, Bucky taking point was both the best and worst option, and entered the code before looking to the opaque wall. The view faded from muddy colors and hazy shapes into crystal clarity. It was gradual change, as if giving them a chance to reconsider, but Steve might’ve just been projecting on an inanimate object. He’d spent too much time with JARVIS to ever fully trust something Stark helped build not to be partially sentient. 

The lack of amenities might’ve worried him once, but he’d seen what Bucky could do with a sheet and some pillows while in a fugue state. It’d been detrimental to both of their health and surprisingly enlightening when it came to turning everyday items into weapons. He approximated half a dozen different scenarios in which she could injure them if they proved her such amenities and decided he just wasn’t that nice a guy. 

She’d remained where Bucky had laid her, but now she was upright and studying them. Steve had thought her fragile during their first encounter, had worried she’d look even more so in her current state of undress, but it had the opposite effect. The clothing had been camouflage to hide the muscles that played beneath her skin. She didn’t sit upon the bench so much as she claimed it. Her body settled on the edge, thighs spread and toes pressed against the floor. 

The position elevated her knees and brought out the definition of her calves beneath the thin material of the leggings. Her hands were propped on her knees, weaponless, but the bruising across her knuckles reminded him that she didn’t need a blade to do damage. Her mouth quirked, but she remained silent beneath their perusal. 

Bucky took a step away from Steve, placing himself in the center of the room and dangerously close to the yellow line. Steve followed his lead and her eyes moved briefly to him before they returned to Bucky. Her chin lifted in challenge to their closer proximity. 

“You’re on an extended mission,” as opening remarks went it wasn’t the worst and a brow, several shades darker than her hair, quirked before Bucky added, “You always painted your toenails during them.”

Steve noted that they were a rather vibrant shade of red before she questioned, “My dossier includes nail polish preferences?” She glanced at Steve and shrugged, “Impressive. If a little odd.” 

“It’s not in your dossier,” Bucky countered with the truth—if not all of it—and finished with, “I know.”

“This again?” She sighed, “More menial chitchat.” Her eyes widened and she raised her brows before finishing, “I think I’d prefer you kill me.” 

“We aren’t going to kill you!” Bucky snapped, more for himself than her. 

“Or apparently comprehend sarcasm.” She glanced at Steve before returning her focus to Bucky, “You don’t seem to understand how this works. You die or I die,” green eyes narrowed before she clarified, “That’s how this ends.” 

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Steve took a step forward and wished Romanoff were there to lend a hand. 

“That’s exactly how this works,” the corners of her mouth quirked and a shrug lifted her shoulder before she stated, as if it were the most obvious thing, “Hail Hydra.” 

The rest of the conversation went steadily downhill from there.

* * *

**10.1999**

Light blurred the edge of her vision. It crowded her and made her shuffle from foot to foot as she was presented with a weapon and a simple order. Green eyes looked past the PSM pistol to the man strapped to a chair in the center of the room. She knew from experience how uncomfortable the burlap sack covering his head was and the tension caused by his bound arms showed through his chest. They were restrained behind him and to the chair, making movement near impossible, and his breathing labored. 

Of course, the rapid rise and fall to his chest could have also meant he’d heard the kill order. 

She accepted the PSM, unsurprised by its lightweight, and checked the magazine. She noted eight copper tipped bullets filled the narrow compartment before reloading it. Her gaze remained on the pistol and the hand that gripped it. The index finger was pressed along the flattened barrel and she noticed there was a pale polish clinging to the cuticle-line of the nails she could see. 

Her breath shuddered outward as she realized the PSM felt more real than the hand she used to grip it. Her brow furrowed and she lifted her head to the agent beside her. Two soldiers remained at her back, blocking the only entry-point in the concrete room. 

The agent inclined his head and motioned to the prisoner again. “He is an enemy of Hydra.” 

Warmth enveloped her chest and she turned to gaze at the quivering man in distaste. He was weak. There was no need to protect the weak. Not anymore. The weak were a liability, a hindrance. Hydra was all that stood between the world and the destruction that came from within. Hydra was what made her strong. 

She tasted blood and bile on her tongue. Her finger curved around the trigger and the gun she’d been holding was now pointed at that bowed head. All for Hydra. 

A whimper escaped the captive and her index finger tensed before easing back and off. Her tongue felt thick and useless in her mouth as she fought the urge to question her orders. It wasn’t her place to question the will of the agent and yet she found herself asking, “What did he do?” 

“What does it matter?” There was a thread of anxiety in his voice, a note of weakness as he stressed, “He is an enemy of—”

She pointed the gun and fired. Blood trickled from the hole in the agent’s forehead before he fell to his knees and she spun, removing the obstacle of the soldiers with two more bullets, two more holes and a whole lot more blood. 

Her eyes narrowed with the feeling that she’d forgotten something. Something important and fundamental, but rather than waste time dwelling she moved to free the prisoner. His shoulders were hunched as if to ward off a blow and sweat had the shirt clinging to his chest. She ignored the bitter, unwashed scent of him and the clammy feel of his skin as she tore at the rope binding his forearms together. 

His shoulders torqued at what looked to be a painful angle, but his grunt of protest fell on deaf, and dead, ears as she finished freeing him. He wrenched away from her as soon as he was capable and stumbled, falling to his knees. He reached for the bag covering his head, hands tugging at the burlap. It compressed around his face before he managed to yank it free and he sat up, gasping for breath. 

Disheveled hair fell across his forehead before brown eyes narrowed on her in suspicion before widening. His already sallow complexion paled, making the dark circles beneath those wide-eyes look bruised and painful. Though, she supposed, there was the distinct possibility they actually were both of those things. He scrambled onto unsteady feet and narrowly missed stepping through the thicker things leaking out the back of her agent’s head. 

“B-Buffy?” 

A frown tugged at her brows as she met his shocked gaze and questioned, “What’s a buffy?” 

“You’re Buffy! You’re alive! I knew it!” He took a step toward her and she raised the gun, aimed it center mass without thought and his forward progression ceased. He nearly fell in his attempt to backtrack as he continued, “It’s me, Buffy! It’s Xander! 

“I don’t know you and my name is certainly not Buffy.” Her words were devoid of emotion, simply a calm statement of fact. 

“We’re friends, _Buffy_.” He stressed the name as if that alone would convince her before he paused and looked around the room. He slowly, by her estimation, grasped that, “You killed them.”

“I did,” she agreed readily and with some exasperation. 

She gave him her back—because of his utter lack of threat—and proceeded to pilfer the soldiers’ weapons. One of them gurgled through the hole she’d put in his neck, but she didn’t waste another bullet. The blood spilling from between his hands as they attempted to stanch the flow told her he’d die soon enough. There was blood on the holster as she retrieved the gun and frowned when she didn’t recognize the make. Ignoring the man’s death sputters she pulled back the barrel and frowned at the sight of a ballistic syringe. 

The agent hadn’t been entirely trusting of her compliance. The very presence of the soldiers gave credence to that thought, but the presence of tranquilizer, rather than bullets, had her at a loss. Liquidation tended to be the only outcome for disobedience. Rising to her feet she moved to the dead solider and relieved him of his weapon as she attempted to process what that meant. Glancing up, she saw the prisoner watched her and that his elation seemed to have dimmed. 

She contemplated leaving him to the same fate as the dying solider, but what remained of her conscience rebuked that thought nearly as soon as it crossed her mind. He might slow her down, but so would the nagging sense of guilt and betrayal she got at the thought of leaving him behind. How she was betraying a complete stranger was anyone’s guess, but her arm rose, offering him one of the tranquilizer guns. He balked, stepping further into the room and nearly onto the body of the agent. He made a frantic noise as his bare feet encountered the spreading pool of blood before he _hopskipped_ away from it. 

A snort burned the inside of her nose before she could suppress it and she rose from her crouched position to follow him in his retreat. “You’ll need a weapon,” she glanced around the room for emphasis before offering, “Unless you’re having fun and want to stay here.” 

His eyes narrowed, oddly shaped brows quirking with her mockery before his spine straightened. He met her halfway and accepted the weapon and her own brow rose in surprise when he pulled back on the barrel, checking the gun’s contents. 

“Tranquilizers?” Those brows shifted upward. “Are we facing off against some of Oz’s cousins?” 

“Who’s Oz?” The question escaped her before she could stop it. She hastily added, “Nevermind. I don’t care.”

The spare tranquilizer gun was tucked between her cargo pants and the small of her back. The tank top she wore offered little protection as it dug into her skin, but she ignored the minor discomfort. While heading back towards the door she offered the camera along the far wall a curious glance since the alarms hadn’t sounded when she’d killed the agent rather than the prisoner. 

That, in and of itself, was unusual, but the lack of noise on the other side of the door made the fine hairs along her arms stand on end. She turned to the prisoner and ordered, “Try not to shoot me,” and with that as her only warning she shoved open the door and stepped out.

As plans went—it wasn’t the best. 

The hallway lay empty directly in front of and behind her. The camera on the corner at her back swiveled with her movements and a void opened in the pit of her stomach even as she led the prisoner forward. The PSM was held in front of her in a two handed grip, left hand cupping her right to steady her aim as they reached the first, of many, blind corners. 

He fell in line behind her, silent and watchful of the area behind them and ignored that nagging sense that she was missing something as she focused on the task at hand. Whirring motors brought her gaze to the camera on the corner above them. It focused on the opposite end of the hall rather than their location and her shoulders sagged. 

“We’ve got company,” was directed at the prisoner before she went low and rounded the corner. 

She heard a muttered, “Whatever happened to three,” which made her smile and think he might actually follow. 

That smile slipped when she saw a man at the far end of the hall. His attire perfectly mimicked her own from tank top to combat boots; albeit his physique was far more muscular and one of his arms glinted in the dim light of the hallway. Trepidation snaked its way up from the void in her gut to tangle in her chest as she squared her shoulders, planted her feet and raised her arms. He stalked towards them and the pulse in her throat responded to that steady pace. 

He brought that arm forward as she fired and three bullets ricocheted off it. She dropped to a knee at the same time the prisoner fired. The softer snick of the tranquilizer gun echoed in the silence left by her shots, but the dart struck the same arm and fell harmlessly aside. The fact that she was fairly certain they wanted her alive and him dead had her rising, shoving the PSM into his sweaty grip with the simple order, “Run!”

Those eyebrows dipped downward as he frowned, but before he could argue she put a hand to his chest and shoved. He stumbled, falling back the way they’d come and she felt the oddest urge to smile. The somehow familiar impulse was squelched as she turned back to her opponent. 

He was nearly on top of her, moments wasted on muddled emotions had cost her the advantage, as he leapt and she was forced to use her forearms to block the knee he aimed for her chest. She’d expected him to lead with the arm—though really no one expected a knee to the chest.

The impact flung her backwards and she landed in an ungraceful heap several feet away. The tranquilizer gun clattered from her hiding spot and slid far out of reach. She sighed and tossed her feet over her head, steel-toes touching the concrete before she rolled into a backwards somersault. Landing in a crouched position, palms flat on the ground and forearms tingling. 

“Hello to you, too.” The casual greeting was tossed in his general direction before she could contemplate the urge to do so. 

His eyes narrowed; blue and entirely unwelcoming—of course, the knee to the chest should’ve been her first clue—as he made his way closer. His stride was slower, steps precise and he took the time to roll the shoulder of his metallic arm back and then forward. The tank top covered where the metal and skin fused, but something about the movement told her there was bone in that joint. 

Bone could be broken, metal could be bent became her internal mantra as she pushed herself onto her feet to meet him head on. Something told her this opponent wouldn’t fall for, or perhaps more precisely, care if she acted wounded or docile. She’d already killed her agent; she might as well ignore all of his teachings and orders. He hadn’t been particularly good at them anyway.

Besides, a smile played at the corners of her mouth, she’d never enjoyed the games of subterfuge. She much preferred the visceral pleasure of coming to blows rather than tricking an opponent into falling on her blade. Both hands rose, palms flat and shoving outward as she deflected his first swing. She stepped into him, blocking the next swing with her elbow. Close quarter combat would make his superior reach useless for the moment and she managed two well-placed fists against his ribs. 

The retaliatory head-butt wasn’t unexpected and managed to stun. A hand was now around her neck and her back impacted the wall. She felt the scrap of the concrete through the thin material of the tank top as he shoved her upwards with that metallic arm. It was an intimidation tactic, and kind of stupid, as it exposed his face and she took ready advantage. 

Several blows were landed before he drove a fist into her abdomen. Her next breath expelled painfully outward before he constricted her airway. Her eyes narrowed and she pulled a leg up, wedging her knee between his chest and her stomach. Using the wall as a brace she pushed and heard his left arm give a noise of protest. The next blow was aimed at her ribs, but his body shifted and she got another leg up.

The arm gave under their combined strength and she was spilled onto her ass as he impacted the wall across from her. He rotated the arm again, but gun fire had him dodging and her looking back towards the hallway and the prisoner. He hadn’t been smart enough to flee for his life and was instead wasting the last two bullets. She flinched when one ricocheted directly into the concrete next to her hip. 

“Run, you idiot!” was shouted in his general direction as she scrambled back to her feet. 

She could see him pull at the trigger, suddenly frantic before he tossed it to the side and lifted his balled fists. Fear made his eyes glossy, but he still swung first. It was blocked, and so was the next before a very solid fist was planted against the prisoner’s temple. His gaze slid to the side, unfocused and she was only a step away when the next blow took him in the chin. He collapsed, strings cut and body tight with the muscle spasms. 

Rage, sudden and not unwelcome, had her finishing that last step and using her opponent’s thigh as a stepping stool as she snagged the back of his head and drove his face into her opposite knee. He caught her waist and lifted, the metallic hand uncomfortably tight, and she used his leverage and momentum against him as she wrapped her legs around his neck and forced her center of gravity back into a flip. 

She landed in a crouched position as he impacted the wall at her back. A glance was spared for the unconscious prisoner, who gave a violent snore, before she spun to face her opponent. Blood stained his upper lip and trickled down one side of his face as he pushed himself onto his knees. She lunged and he met her halfway. 

A fist found her ribs and another scored her cheek. She returned the favor and managed another blow to his face that had him muttering in Russian. More blood spilled from his abused nose and she slipped away from him in an attempt to give herself enough room to use her legs. He caught her wrist and that metal hand tightened past the point of pain until she felt something give. 

The sensation stole her breath and she ignored it to spin into him, mimicking the dancers she’d been forced to watch nearly every day. She used the momentum from the movement to drive her elbow up and into his throat. He gagged and his free hand snaked into her hair, yanked her back and around. The wall collided with her forehead and she staggered. The hold on her wrist tightened and she felt things that should be stationary move. 

A boot caught the side of her knee and the joint gave with a wet sound. She cried out, collapsing onto her good knee and her abused wrist was pulled into her body as he freed it. Her shoulders sagged as blood trickled down her face and she didn’t bother to wipe it away. Instead she welcomed the camouflage as she peered up at him from her huddled position. She watched as some of the tension left his body—perhaps the lessons hadn’t been completely useless.

He was breathing heavily and she heard the rushed footfalls moving down the hall at her back. He turned towards them, taking his gaze off of her and she took the opportunity to bring her uninjured arm forward. Her forearm fit nicely between his legs and he rose on tiptoe before stumbling back a step. He coughed before falling to his knees and then to his side. He didn’t whimper, but the glare offered retribution as soon as he could stand. 

She smiled sweetly in return and something small impacted her shoulder. Her head turned, caught sight of the dart and she managed a muttered, “Ow,” before slumping to the side.


	4. video killed the...

Clothing was strewn across their bedroom, but neatly folded in the opened suitcase at the foot of their bed. Tara Maclay’s brows rose at the mess as she entered. She chose her steps carefully, but still managed to slip on a pile of scarves. The bowler hat, that been missing for months, peeked out from beneath the duvet. She spared it a frown before following the line of the bed to the side Willow Rosenberg occupied. 

Her tablet was clutched tight, the screen illuminating her pinched features as Willow chewed at the inside of her lower lip. Tara cleared her throat and green eyes rose to stare at her blankly a moment before understanding dawned and tears filled them. Tara thought about commenting on her partner’s redecorating, but she found herself with an armful of redhead. The grassy scent of juniper tickled her nose as Willow’s arms tightened around her shoulders. She wrapped her own around Willow’s waist and decided to wait out the hug rather question the sudden need for it. 

Willow’s heart beat frantically against her chest and Tara raised a hand to draw soothing circles across her back. Her next breath hiccupped and she pulled back. Tears had made tracks down her cheeks and seemed to be retracing an earlier path if Willow’s ruined mascara was any indication. Tara searched her face for some clue as to what was happening before she asked, “How can I help?”

Willow’s face crumpled, more tears falling as she offered, “Most people would-would ask the crying person if they’re alright. Which obviously they aren’t, what with the crying and all, but you,” she gave Tara a terribly watered-down smile, “You never ask the wrong questions.” 

“Sure I do. I asked you if you wanted syrup with your pancakes just last week,” Willow’s smile faded into a confused frown and Tara hastily tacked on, “E-everyone wants syrup with pancakes.”

Willow kissed her. Pouring her desperation, her yearning into and Tara brought her hands up from Willow’s waist to cage her face. Held her still as she quieted the kiss and pulled back to see more tears illuminating the ring of hazel around Willow’s irises. 

She was offered a timid smile and more timid words, “Buffy’s alive.”

The name confused her a moment as she struggled to recall who Buffy was and why her being alive would be important before her own eyes widened in understanding. Buffy, _Buffy Summers_ , had been the Slayer before Faith and one of Willow’s closest friends in high school. She’d heard many a tale about their hijinks in the early years of their relationship, but less so after they’d lost Faith. 

“How do you know she’s alive?” Tara didn’t question the why. It was unimportant—for the moment. 

Willow stepped out of her embrace and retrieved her tablet from the bed. “Oz sent me a video.” 

Tara inserted a moment of normalcy by asking, “How’s Kelden?”

“Good,” her smile widened, “He’s having some trouble with algebra. I promised Oz I’d send him my notes.” 

“You still have your algebra notes?” 

Willow shot her an affronted look before retrieving the video Oz had sent. “Of course I do. I’m a teacher.” 

“You teach computer science.” Tara frowned at the top of her bowed head.

“So?” 

Her genuine confusion with the question made Tara smile, but Willow ceased further possible teasing by turning the tablet over with the video already in progress. Her smile slipped away as she watched a petite blonde face off against two opponents and hold her own—until she didn’t. Tara winced at the end of the video and Willow leaned over the tablet to close that screen and opened another folder. It was as still from the video, capturing in perfect clarity an image of the female fighter’s face.

A face that had been immortalized through a memorial website Willow had created in high school. A website that had started on Geocities before moving to MySpace and then onto Facebook before finding its current home on Tumblr. The site had many a story dedicated in memoriam to Buffy Summers from people all over the country, but most were based out of California. 

“D-do we know why she’s fighting Captain America?” Tara resisted the urge to frown at her stutter and instead looked up at Willow. “Is that a good sign?”

“No,” Willow frowned, “It’s really not. Which is why we’re headed to Los Angeles.” 

“Angel,” Tara said as way of explication to that statement. 

“Angel,” Willow agreed with a resolute nod, “I’ve already let Groo know we’ll be heading out of town.”

A cursory glance at the suitcase’s contents raised her brows before Tara questioned, “Isn’t Los Angeles only two hours away?”

“We’re going to New York afterwards.”

“We are?”

“I am,” Willow confessed before adding, “I was hoping you’d come with me. Help me figure out what’s going on.”

Tara searched Willow’s face a moment, noting the determined tilt to her chin and the steady quiver to her lower lip before offering, “I’ll need to call Kit and see if she can cover the Magic Shop while we’re away and you should call Percy to see if he’ll lend Groo a hand.” 

“Will do,” Willow smiled, tense and not entirely convincing, “Does this mean you’ll come with me?” 

“You’re right.” Tara nodded, “I am the only one that doesn’t ask the dumb questions.” 

“Good,” her brows tugged together as realization dawned, “and hey!”

“You said it.” Tara stole a kiss before adding, “Pack warm. New York is colder than Sunnydale.” 

Willow inclined her head, “Where did I put the scarves?”

“The floor.”

“Right.” 

“Along with half of our wardrobe.” 

“Not half,” Willow paused, conceded, “A fourth.” 

“And yet still too large of a fraction.” 

“Call Kit. I’ll take care of Percy and packing.” 

“You do that.” 

She went to retrieve her phone from her purse. “Tara,” she glanced up to see Willow studying her. “I love you.” 

“I love you too, but I’m still not helping you clean up this mess.” She beat a hasty retreat out of the room after that counter and smiled at Willow’s laughter and terrible throwing arm—of course socks weren’t the best arsenal.

* * *

After the video the silence had that deafening quality people were always so chatty about. Tara was even tempted to use the cliché of tension and knives as she looked at those gathered around the desk. She’d already been shown the video twice by Willow before they’d even left their home and she’d listened to it several more times while Willow studied and dissected it on her tablet during the drive to Los Angeles. Those extra viewings, coupled with her lack of a personal connection to Buffy, had allowed her to take a place on the opposite side of the desk and watch the group’s reactions.

Angel had taken the seat behind the desk. Which didn’t surprise Tara as he tended to take the leadership role more often than not—even when Faith had been alive he’d done so on numerous occasions—and Willow was stationed beside him. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce stood opposite and while Angel and Willow, still, looked equal parts shocked and concerned Wesley simply appeared devoid of an emotional reaction.

It might’ve been because he was about as personally attached to Buffy as Tara was, but she had a nagging sense that he was simply better at hiding his emotions. She knew there’d been a falling out between him and Angel’s group when Connor had been born, but as far as she knew the relationships had eventually mended. 

She turned her focus from the puzzle that was Wesley to the open book that was Lorne. The demon caught her gaze and offered a weak smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He seemed more concerned with Angel than the video and Tara didn’t particularly blame him. The vampire in question once again hit play and Tara watched Willow place a comforting hand on his shoulder before she paused it. 

“Watching it again won’t change it,” she assured him with a squeeze of her hand. 

“How,” his voice cracked with emotion and he paused, pulled his gaze from the screen and directed it at Willow before asking, “How is this possible?” 

“It doesn’t appear that she’s a vampire.” Wesley offered, stepping away from his place beside Angel and around the desk. “Sunlight has no obvious affect, but this also requires the assumption that this woman _is_ Buffy Summers.” 

Angel turned the chair, dislodging Willow’s attempt at comfort and directed his gaze to Lorne. “Did you get anything?”

“She didn’t sing, hum or whistle a note.” Lorne shook his head. “Sorry, big guy.” 

“We can hum and whistle?” Willow frowned. “You always made us sing.” 

“Tara sang,” Lorne corrected, his sudden smile sweet and a little endearing to counter the sting of, “You butchered.” 

Willow made an affronted noise and Tara attempted to redirect, “We can perform a locater spell. That’ll confirm if this woman is Buffy Summers.” 

“It would confirm that she’s _a_ Buffy Summers,” Wesley countered, “Not necessarily your Buffy. We’ve had interactions with alternate realities in the past.” 

“Whether she’s ours or someone else’s we need to investigate this further.” Angel looked to Willow and asked, “Can you contact Oz and—”

“He’s already researching the video and who uploaded it. We know the IP address was in New York and he’s been searching GoogleMaps to see if he can narrow down where the fight took place.” 

The corner of his mouth curved inward with the interruption and it was the closest Tara ever seen Angel get to a smile. “Why didn’t I hire you?” 

Willow huffed, “You couldn’t afford me.” 

“Yes,” Wesley cleared his throat, “I’ll consult my books and contact Charles to see if he’s heard anything of interest in Chicago. They are quite a bit closer to New York.” 

Tara watched Lorne follow Wesley from the room as Willow hit play and she and Angel settled in to watch the video again. She rose, saw Willow hardly noticed and sighed before following the two men through the back area of the Hyperion towards Wesley’s office. She’d only been in it a few times, the Los Angeles group was usually summoned to Sunnydale and not the other way around, but Lorne’s teal suit was hard to miss. 

They’d fixed the broken windows from the last kidnapping attempt. Connor was getting better at thwarting them himself. Fifteen going on thirty—or three hundred—having vampire parents seemed to have rubbed off on him. Tara wasn’t entirely sure on the whole nature vs nurture on that one, but he did come by his brooding naturally. Of that she was certain. 

He was making with the brooding upstairs since he hadn’t been allowed to watch the video. Winifred Pryce, Wesley’s very pregnant wife, had joined him and assured Wesley she’d study the video later. Mothering instincts were hard to ignore when ones hormones were out of balance and Tara had felt, more than saw, Fred’s need to comfort Connor. Whether Connor had wanted the comfort seemed to be irrelevant. 

Tara closed the door to Wesley’s office behind her and the pinched look with her presence was ignored. Wesley apparently felt no need to hide his emotions from her, but Lorne turned in his chair to motion her forward. “Tara, sweetness and light, come join us.” 

“I don’t think—”

Taking a page from Willow’s book Tara interrupted him, “She’s dangerous.” Wesley’s mouth closed with a snap and Lorne smiled as if she’d done something clever. She spared him an arched brow before directing her attention to Wesley—who also took the role of leader from time to time—and offered, “Whether she’s their Buffy or another. If she’s a-a Slayer then she’s dangerous. I think they’ll forget that.” 

“I believe they already have.” 

She nodded with Wesley’s agreement. “We can’t forget that.” 

“We’ll remember for them,” Lorne assured them both. “In the meantime. I think it best if everyone sings me a little ditty.” A shrug lifted the padded shoulders of his suit, wrinkling the clean lines, before he explained, “I want to gauge of everyone’s place and see if I can figure out where we might be headed.” 

“You don’t mean our destination, do you?” 

Wesley’s question was met with a tired smile from the demon. “I wish it were that simple.” 

“I think we all do.” 

Tara nodded in agreement with Wesley’s statement and then smiled before she began to sing, “ _Soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur. Happy kitty, sleepy kitty, purr purr purr._ ”

* * *

**10.1999**

A smile curved the corner of Baron Strucker’s mouth as the video depicted their asset coming to blows with the soldier. The monocle he wore reflected the light from the screen, becoming opaque and drawing attention to the thin scar that followed the contours of his face. He watched the rest of the video while taking discreet notes. The letters were compact and perfectly parallel on the unlined paper and also in German. Olvo could speak the language on occasion, but reading it was another beast entirely. 

Twelve hours before he’d been forced to report the injuries sustained by the asset during what should have been a routine training session. Their benefactors, cautious men with deep pockets and lofty ambition, had arranged for one of their own to come, assess the situation and the young woman under his tutelage. A young woman that was once again having her memories altered as he awaited Strucker’s evaluation.

“She shows promise.” He made the words a statement before pausing in his notes to watch as she delivered the final and insulting blow to their soldier. “Her temperament needs work, but you can’t create that kind of tenacity.” 

A frown tugged Olvo’s heavy brow down, uncomprehending of Stucker’s elation with such a disappointing turn in events. “Sir, this session was a failure. The asset—”

“She killed,” Strucker interrupted his self-degradation to point out that obvious fact. He continued, voice still conversational, “Perhaps it wasn’t the person you intended her to kill. But still,” he tapped a finger against his notes, “Progress.” 

His dark gaze narrowed on the screen and Olvo restarted the playback of the security cameras. He rewatched as the asset removed the obstacles of his three men and until this session she had shown an unwillingness to take a human life. When presented with subhuman species she’d had no qualms in neutralizing them, but humans had always been a hurdle—until, apparently, now. 

He offered the superior officer a tentative nod before requesting, “Perhaps, Baron Strucker, you could offer advice on cultivating this particular asset.” 

“I would be more interested in accepting the responsibility of her training.” He turned his gave back to the screen. “I believe, with my full attention, we could have her mission ready within a year’s time.” 

“Sir, I could never ask to monopolize your skills in such a manner—”

“You did not ask,” the Baron reminded him and then smiled, “I volunteered. I think my time is best spent here for now.” 

“We are honored to have you.” 

Strucker’s smile grew, as if he could smell the bullshit in his words, but he kept his gaze on the screen he questioned, “Why was the soldier pulled from stasis? He’s not meant for such frivolous exploits.”

“He returned from a mission recently. We were in the process of debriefing him when the altercation between the asset and our men took place.” Olvo hesitated briefly before taking full accountability of his actions. “I thought to test her adaptability.” 

“And if she had been eliminated?”

“Then she wouldn’t have been worth your time or mine.”

Strucker nodded, “Correct. I would like to speak with our soldier on the events in the hallway. Has he been sent for treatment yet?” 

“He performed amicably. I saw no reason to send him for sedation.” 

“Excellent,” he turned to a fresh sheet of paper and nodded to the screen, “again.”


	5. the road taken

There was a hum in the air as the members of the Los Angeles team made their plans and packed various weapons and texts. It’d been controlled chaos since the locator spell Tara and Willow had performed with a stuffed pig that’d remained in Willow’s possession after all these years. Tara might’ve been jealous, but the quartz from their first spell together still hung around Willow’s neck. Sweet and a bit of a packrat was her Willow. 

Tara sighed and sank further into the sofa near the center of the lobby. The spell had confirmed Buffy was alive and located in upstate New York. The outcome had left Willow in tears and Angel more laconic than usual forcing Wesley to fill that leadership void. He’d made arrangements with a David Nabbit for their passage on his private jet. They’d arrive by early morning, but that also left the team with little time to prepare. 

Charles—Gunn to most—had agreed to be picked up on the jet’s return flight so that he could watch over Los Angeles while Angel and Wesley were away. Tara thought that had more to do with Fred’s pregnancy than any dire need for a champion in the city. 

Lorne settled himself beside her on the couch and she spared him a tired smile that he returned. His eyes held a glossy sheen that meant he was enjoying the hubbub going on around them, but he watched Connor more than anyone else. The sullen teenager wanted to go with them, but Angel—in a rare moment of clarity—had refused and reminded him Fred would need him in Los Angeles. 

The physicist had readily agreed and then proceeded to distract him with talk of her latest invention that would shoot flaming stakes. Tara might’ve questioned the thought behind providing him such a weapon, but Connor was worse than a teenage Dawn when it came to getting kidnapped. Faith’s sister was all grown up and living the journey rather than the destination—Dawn speak for homeless and loving it—while she traveled looking for trouble. 

Tara wasn’t sure if that trouble was of the human or demonic variety, but they’d rarely seen her after Faith’s death. Her weekly blog tended to be of the hilarious sort and she sounded happy when she did call. Tara wouldn’t fault her the life she’d chosen even if she wouldn’t have chosen it for her. 

“Think we’ll make it in once piece?” Lorne’s question inclined her head and Tara contemplated it. Perhaps too long since he chuckled and answered himself, “Yeah, I thought not.” 

“We’ll make it,” she assured him and tried her best not to smile when Connor stormed out of the room, all long limbs and floppy hair, “However I do feel for Fred.” 

“She’s a toughie,” Lorne’s smile widened, “Besides, Connor’s sweet on her.” 

“How’s Wesley feel about that?” Tara inquired. Her own smile spreading as the man in question made his way towards them. “Leaving his wife alone with a younger man.” 

“He’s tired,” Wesley answered for them as he took the available seat next to Tara. “I do believe Angel has his hands full with that one.” 

“It doesn’t help that it’s been a couple of centuries since he went through puberty,” Tara shrugged, “Hard to relate when you don’t remember.” 

Lorne removed the fedora that usually sat jauntily on his head and Tara smiled at the horns now bared to the room. Willow had always been uneasy around Lorne due in part to his green skin and her fear of frogs, but Tara thought it had more to do the fact that she regularly had to sing when he was around. Willow was a woman of many talents, but singing had not, and would never be, one of them. 

The redhead was currently checking the crystals, books and herbs she’d already check and rechecked before they left Sunnydale. She caught her looking and spared her a tight-lipped smile before burying her head in the bag’s contents again. “We need to watch out for them.” 

Tara didn’t direct the phrase to either of them, but she felt Lorne’s arm fall across the back of the couch and a reassuring knuckle brushed her shoulder while Wesley nodded his agreement. “I hope for their sakes this works out, but we’ll hold them together if it doesn’t.”

“I think,” Tara’s breathe hitched and hurt her heart to imagine it, but she finished the sentence, “It’ll be like they lost her all over again.” 

“It’ll be worse,” Wesley patted her arm, awkwardly, before rising, “It’ll be much worse.” 

He crossed the room to Fred and pressed a kiss to her temple before recommending Willow take a look at his own archive of books to see if there was anything of use. Tara leaned into Lorne’s side as the room occupants, outside the two of them, continued their rapid to and fro. It made her tired just watching them and she confided to Lorne, “I intend to sleep on this jet.” She frowned and lifted her head, “Also how do you know someone with a jet?” 

“David,” Lorne smiled, “I think you’ll like him. He’s sweet, entirely too trusting and has a soft spot for the demonic ladies.” 

Tara’s brows rose before she smiled, “There’s a story there.” She settled herself more comfortably against him and inquired, “Do tell.” 

“Well it happened before my time with Angelcakes and Company, but as I heard it…”

* * *

Stars speckled the sky, easier to see against the wide expanse of night now that they were out of the city. It was a quarter past four and the world didn’t feel awake yet. A far cry from the hustle and bustle of New York where there was someone awake and working all hours of the day. It made Steve, even while bleary-eyed, smile since the city and the forest seemed to perfectly mirror his companions at the moment. 

They’d been woken by the drone of their cellphones. Beckoning them, stumbling from the living quarters of the compound. Steve led a relatively awake Bucky—who tended to be more nocturnal than most—and a yawning Sam to the security office where three coffees, fresh and black, awaited them. The bearer of such gifts, and the early morning summons, was Hill and she sat behind a large desk with the view Steve had been admiring at her back. 

She rose when they entered the office, hands smoothing the lines of her dress, which made Steve glance down at his bare feet and pajama bottoms with a grimace. The message that had flashed across the screen of his cell had seemed urgent so he’d forgone getting dressed for speed. Hill pushed a coffee into his hands, distracting him with caffeine. 

The process was repeated with the other two, but with more finesse when it came to Bucky. She didn’t treat him with kid gloves, but there was a kindness to her actions whenever his friend was concerned. Steve watched the timid smile and their interaction with curiosity and wondered if she felt guilt for her being, even marginally, associated with Hydra. He frowned at the notion, but Hill retrieved a remote from the pocket of her dress—who knew something so form fitting could have pockets—and the wall beside them was flooded with images. 

The light was sudden and blinding, Steve squinted against the glare of it. He caught sight of Sam as he ran a tired hand down his face, stretching it comically before he took his first sip. Covering his smile with his cup Steve took a drink of the hot, but not scalding, coffee and welcomed the warmth that spread into his gut. Bucky took a step forward, drawing his attention as he focused on the portion of the wall housing the video feed of the Vault. Steve studied it in turn and found their guest lying upon the concrete slab. 

The mattress had been pushed to the floor and she was curled on her side, body tucked tight and shoulders twitching. Bucky frowned at the feed, his own shoulders tightening, and Steve moved so that they stood side by side before the image. Sam followed him and took up the place on Bucky’s right. 

They studied the sleeping woman, making Steve feel slightly voyeuristic, before Sam inquired, “You gonna drink that?” 

Bucky blinked, coming back to them slowly, and Steve hadn’t realized he wasn’t fully cognizant. He kept his focus forward, letting Sam take point, as he guided his—their—friend back into the present. Hill glanced at them, eyes marginally wider than they had been a moment ago, but she returned her focus to the images she was bringing up on the wall via her tablet. The video feed was downsized to the far corner and Bucky’s eyes closed, his head inclining as he refocused. 

His shoulders rolled forward and then back, a nervous gesture Steve recognized from before the war, and he sighed before handing over the coffee. A nod dipped Sam’s chin, no other words spoken, and he slid the full cup easily into his empty one with nary a drop split. Steve shook a head, both with Sam’s meticulous nature and the fact that he’d already finished his own. 

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he returned his focus to the images on the screen and the most prominent one appeared to be of several young women. The vibrant colors, with contrasting hues and patterns, were a little too bright for so early in the morning and he took another drink. 

Hill made a few motions on her tablet, something like a tap and then a stretch, and one of the faces in the picture was enlarged. Steve blinked at the image of their guest with round cheeks and much blonder hair. She wore what appeared to be a cheerleading uniform of blue and yellow and she was smiling. Looking for all the world like any other teenager with their whole life ahead of them—except she hadn’t. 

“It looks as if Sgt. Barnes’ assumption might be accurate,” Hill admitted and from her tone Steve guessed she hadn’t expected that. She switched out the enlarged image for the original and nodded to one of the young women. “Meet Kimberly Hannah-Kramer. The brunette in the _interesting_ yellow jacket posted this picture a few years ago.” 

Steve raised a brow at the derision in her tone, but Sam derailed his train of thought by commenting, “Let me guess. Posted it on a Throwback Thursday?” He shook his head when Hill merely smiled, “Well at least it provided something other than embarrassment.” 

“Thowback Thursday?” 

Steve was grateful that Bucky asked so he didn’t have too. 

Hill’s smile stretched wider before she explained, “You post old pictures on Thursdays,” her head inclined, “I’m not entirely sure why.” 

“Humiliation mostly,” Sam offered with a grin. 

“Think we should get in on this?” Bucky raised his brows and Steve caught a ghost of a smile. 

He shrugged before offering, “I think you’d need a Facebook account to participate.”

“Or Instagram,” Bucky countered with his own shrug and an actual smile, “Or Tumblr.” 

“Quit showing me up,” Steve groused.

“But it’s so easy.” And now he was definitely smirking. 

Sam snorted and shook his head, “It’s not really a _thing_ anymore,” before he helped himself to more of Bucky’s coffee. 

“Thing?” Steve questioned.

“Regardless,” Hill interrupted, bringing them back on track, “According to the comments section of the photo our prisoner,” Steve cleared his throat and Hill spared him a look—one he knew and chose to ignore—before she corrected, “Our _guest_ ,” he also overlooked the way she filled that word with derision, “appears to be, the supposedly deceased, Buffy Anne Summers.” 

“Once we had a name we were able to gather quite a bit on Ms. Summers,” the images rotated with a police report that included a mugshot of the teenager, “Apparently, our guest was arrested and booked on arson charges in ’97, but they were later dropped due to witnesses recanting their statements.” 

While the mugshot appeared to have been taken around the same time as the previous photo, her cheeks were still rounded with youth, but the happiness from the previous photo was absent and had been replaced by a steely resolve. Steve frowned at it before that image was replaced with yet another police report. “In ’98 Ms. Summers was wanted for questioning in the death of Jamaican National, Kendra Young.”

“I’m starting to question your assumption that Bucky was correct,” Sam stated and Steve couldn’t help, but agree. 

The corners of her mouth quirked and Hill flipped through several items on her tablet before bringing up a newspaper article. The headline, “Double Homicide Shocks Community,” and Steve’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the clipping while Hill summarized, “In ’99 Joyce Summers and her daughter, Buffy Summers, were kidnapped and taken to a remote location where the supposedly double homicide took place. Their bodies were located by a Rupert Giles who cooperated fully with the police, but no suspects were ever brought to trial,” Hill sighed, “Or even questioned.” 

“Sounds terrible,” Sam agreed, “But that doesn’t prove she’s not an agent by choice. Plenty of folks seemed to be working for Hydra without coercion.”   
“Agreed,” Hill nodded and brought up yet another item for them to peruse.  
“Is that Tumblr?” Bucky questioned.  
“It is,” Hill tapped an arrow on the corner of the screen, causing it to scroll to the top of the feed, “This dashboard is a memoriam to Ms. Summers. It has testimonies from students and teachers alike that claim Ms. Summers saved them at some point during a four year period from 1996 to 1999.” The screen rotated downward so that they could see the numerous personal notes left some seventeen years after this woman had supposedly died. “Most of them are from inhabits of Sunnydale, California with a few in the greater Los Angeles area and even some from Las Vegas, Nevada.”  
“I think it’s safe to assume that Ms. Summers was as much a victim of Hydra as Sgt. Barnes implied.” Hill turned, the tablet now falling to her side as she met Steve’s gaze and awaited his response—as if she believed his mattered above all others. 

“So let’s make her a survivor.” 

Sam’s casual reply made Bucky smile and Steve nodded his agreement. “As good a plan as any.” 

“I suggest to we make contact with Romanoff,” Hill suggested with a frown. 

Steve lifted his coffee in toast to her. “Call in the reinforcements.”

* * *

**08.2000**

Bullet holes decorated the concrete around her and the floor beneath her feet, but it was the man in the chair that drew her attention. Dark hair was matted to his forehead and brown eyes stared up at her from beneath a pair of expressive eyebrows. He stank of sweat and the faintest hint of urine. Her mouth turned down in distaste with that scent and the unsettling thought that the urine might not be his own since his sweatpants lacked the telltale stain. His arms were bound behind his back, his ankles to the chair legs, but it was the gag that seemed to be causing him the most discomfort.

Saliva made his chin a shiny mess and his eyebrows wiggled as he attempted to address her through the cloth knot. Her breath expelled outward as she grew bored with the staring contest and glanced at her companions. The soldier stood silent behind her, back straight and his metal hand clasped by its flesh and bone twin in front of him. It was the most at ease the other man got as far as she could tell. 

Strucker stood on her right, a step ahead of her so that all she could see was his profile as he too studied the prisoner. The monocle was held aloft by a metallic brace that seemed at odds with the dated bit of corrective glassware. Though, her green eyes dipped to take in his entire outfit, and all of him felt a bit dated with random bits seemingly out of place. He turned, as if he felt her study of him, and presented her with the PSM she’d grown accustomed to during training sessions. 

She accepted the automatic pistol and, per habit, checked to ensure it was loaded. The magazine slipped back into place with a click—that made the soldier behind her shift—before she pulled back the barrel to see another bullet already in the chamber. Nine bullets seemed overkill for one prisoner, but she wasn’t one to quibble as she allowed the barrel to fall forward. 

“Anni,” the name felt foreign, as it always did when Strucker used it, but it drew her gaze up to meet his. “This is another lesson. No different from your others.” 

She turned to give the soldier at her back a curious study. “Then why is he here?”

“Precautionary measure.” Unlike the other agents Strucker always answered her questions, whether or not she was supposed to understand the answer was up for some debate. “What is your purpose?”

A simple enough question with a simple enough answer. “To serve Hydra.” 

“Ah, Anni. How right you are.” Strucker stepped back, coming to stand behind her, but his gaze was now focused on the prisoner. “What if I told you this man was an enemy of Hydra?”

“I would kill him.” The statement made the man in the chair struggle harder against his bindings. Grunts made it past his gag and she was grateful for its presence. She disliked it when they begged. 

Strucker moved in closer, his hand coming around her to help her raise the PSM. His grip was cool and dry as he guided her movements and she fell into the familiar stance that she used on the firing range. It was a room similar to this one, right down the bullet holes in the walls. His chin came to rest near her temple as he adjusted her shoulders, rolling them back and loosening her spine. 

“He is an enemy of Hydra.” 

The statement was simple with a simple solution—she exhaled, sighted and fired.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be art and outtakes posted to my [tumblr](http://avamclean.tumblr.com/).


End file.
